


Look at that Sky, Life's Begun

by TheLucindaC



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anachronistic, Found Family, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Inspired by A Knight's Tale (2001), Jousting, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Possibly Pre-Slash, References to Chaucer, References to Depression, Royalty, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLucindaC/pseuds/TheLucindaC
Summary: His secret is out. His real name isn't Sir El von Waugh, who hails from Braekenbillzen. He's not a knight at all. He's just a peasant. One who lied and cheated his way into competing in dozens of tournaments, just to chase after his dreams that a man can change his stars. But now, there's nothing left for him to do, except stand in the city square, locked in the stockade, and await the judgement of those he deceived. Eliot Waugh is ready for whatever hardship may come. He's more than used to it. Until the worst happens, and his friends show up to his defense, knowing full well that saving him might cost them their own lives.Written for The Magicians Monthly Prompt Challenge, "Royalty."
Relationships: Eliot Waugh & Julia Wicker, Kady Orloff-Diaz & Alice Quinn, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi & Eliot Waugh
Comments: 2
Kudos: 48
Collections: Magicians Monthly Prompt Challenge





	Look at that Sky, Life's Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from "Golden Years" by David Bowie. I always did low-key ship Will and Geoff from A Knight's Tale. "With all the pieces of my heart?" Come ON. Chaucer has so much chaotic bisexual energy, don't @ me. Also, this is what happens when you need to do something with all that Middle English you learned when you took that Chaucer class in college.
> 
> Anyway, feelin' cute, might write a sequel to this later, who knows.

* * *

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,  
Th’assay so hard, so sharp the conquering,  
The dredful joye always that slit so yerne,  
Al this mene I by Love, that my felynge  
Astonyeth with his wonderful werkynge  
So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,  
Nat woot I wel wher that I flete or sinke.

\--Geoffrey Chaucer, “The Parliament of Fowls”

* * *

Eliot was locked in the stockade. Back bent. Head parallel with his hands. Held in place betwixt two wooden slats. On display, on a raised dais, in the middle of the city square. And he deserved it. The law said so. To be fair, there was barely a rule Eliot hadn’t broken by now, excepting one or two of the big ones. This, though, was the only time he’d allowed himself to get caught.

The stocks were his reward. For deciding to have some self-respect. For the one moment he chose not to run away. He still felt a bit pride about it. Half a day of minor humiliation wasn’t enough to crush his spirit.

Now, having self-respect was different than having a spine. Eliot definitely had one of those. It took an obstinate spine to do what he’d done. But he didn’t gloat about his courage. He didn’t shout, or jest, or fling mockeries at the onlookers around him. He barely moved. He kept his back bent. Head parallel with his hands. Locked in place. Because he was a little sorry. For lying to all these people. Having self-respect now meant he could feel that too.

Up ‘til yesterday, he hadn’t considered himself someone who had any. Not over the course of his whole life. Lying, sucking cock for spare coin, taking cock for spare coin, forgery, shoveling animal shit. Borderline emotionally blackmailing his friends into lying on his behalf. He’d been willing to do it all.

As for his actual spine: it wasn’t starting to ache, thank heaven. It did itch like a motherfucker, though. Every tournament, every joust, every moment of training – all those muscles he’d built up, to withstand steering a galloping horse, while holding a lance steady, while another man on his own horse with his own lance barreled towards him, so they could try to impale each other for sport – all those finely tuned sinews and tendons and reflexes came in handy right now. To make sure he could stand tall, without tiring.

Or…bend over, with dignity. And not in the fun way.

Regardless. He was still completely incapable of itching his own goddamn back.

A child ran up to his prostrated head. Eliot raised his eyes. It was a boy, maybe six or seven years old, smiling a toothy grin. He smacked Eliot across the cheek, hard, and ran laughing back to his mother. _Good for you, kid_ , Eliot thought, dropping his eyes back to the ground. One of his long black curls slipped out from behind his ears. He tried to blow it out of the way with a puff of air. Another child came forward – a girl. She copied her predecessor, and then blew a long raspberry in his face.

The crowd was getting bigger. Nearly the size of the throngs that’d filled the jousting stadiums. The news had spread across London fast, like a hearty strain of the clap from a popular whorehouse. Sir El von Waugh of Brækenbillzen, crowned victor of countless tilts, challenger to the champion Count Martin of the Château Windsors, was no more than a peasant, born right across the river in Cheapside.

Commoners and gentry alike had cheered his name. Their children had pretended to be him in their games. They’d thought him some handsome rake from a far-off country. Sweeping across Britain and the Continent, with more chivalry and grace than any of their own local knights.

Look at him now. Brought down low, where he was born. Back where he belonged.

Someone shouted an insult at him. It lacked imagination, but it was inspiring enough. Another voice joined it. And then more. Dozens of them started shouting. _Liar. Whoreson._ _Fake_. _Villain. Sinner. Bastard._ Never more than a few syllables, but all true.

A pair of familiar boots caught his eye. Julia was approaching, and she began to climb up the stone steps, lifting her skirts so she didn’t trip. She said nothing, but turned and faced the people gathering around him, lifting up a walking stick in both hands like a quarter staff. A silent warning.

“What’re you doing?” Eliot asked.

“What’s it look like?” she said.

He figured he might as well be a hypocrite today too, on top of everything else. So he answered, “Like you’re determined to do something stupid.”

Her snort was loud enough to be heard over the renewed shouting of the crowd. They’d realized she wasn’t leaving. That she was there to protect him, not hit him.

“I told you to run away,” she said, as if that explained everything.

True, she had told him. Just yesterday. So had all the others, during that godawful shouting match.

Julia had more brains than half the scholars in Oxford. Could’ve done anything she wished, after Sir Mayakovsky died two years ago and freed them from servitude. And yet here she stood, because of him. Risking her safety, for him, like always.

She’d taken Eliot under her wing long ago, right after his father left him on that dock as a boy. Apprenticeship to a real knight hadn’t come cheap. His father had only time for a fleeting goodbye before Mayakovsky tossed Eliot into the stables to start learning. Julia’d held him close, and given him a rag to wipe away his snot and tears. She showed him how to manage the knight’s five thoroughbred chargers, their tack, their grooming. Warned him about their owner’s drunken stupors. Taught him how to dodge out of the way when the old bastard had a real sword in his hands.

Over the next two decades, when Mayakovsky started entering tournaments to earn some quick coin, she was the one who tracked all of his opponents. She researched their weaknesses, and always found the quickest ways to victory, the easiest events to win, so they’d actually have food in their bellies come nightfall. Before their master drank the rest of his winnings away.

She was the sister Eliot’d never had. Closer than if they’d been bound by blood. And Eliot had dragged her into his deception without batting an eye.

Mayakovsky had shuffled off this mortal coil mid-tourney. To make sure they didn’t starve to death, they’d stuffed Eliot in the man’s armor at the last second, taking his place in the final joust. They’d already been two points ahead; all Eliot had to do was make sure not to fall off the horse, and to not take off his dented helmet. They’d collected the grand prize, promptly sold it, and had their first meal in three days.

And then Eliot’d poked and prodded at her. Needled her with his flawed reasoning. Appealed to that sense of adventure she always had, buried deep beneath all that practicality. Instead of forcing themselves to go their separate ways, to go home to England to find work, why not keep pretending? Why not enter more tournaments? Sleep in a real bed every once in a while. Get better clothes. Enjoy more hot food, instead of table scraps or foraging in the forest. All they had to do was say Eliot was of noble birth, and win. Simple.

Huh. Another familiar face was shoving his way through the crowd now. Spiky-haired, like he’d just rolled off his pallet, and his tunic as loose as ever. Pacing a line in the dirt before the masses. A boxer in the ring, and everyone else was the enemy. Eliot hadn’t expected to see Penny “betray us and your entrails will become your ex-trails” Adiyodi coming to his defense. He was the true realist of their little ensemble. And yet here he was.

If Julia was Eliot’s pseudo-sister, then Penny had earned himself the title of their reluctant half-brother. He’d barged into their lives not long after Eliot turned nine. A scrapper, who Mayakovsky used to smack upside the head for no reason, and every reason. Penny hadn’t talked for the first few months, until he laughed at Eliot as he tried to pick up almost an entire suit of armor by himself. Eliot dropped everything and tackled him to the ground, only to wind up with a face full of dirt and Penny twisting his arm behind his back, still laughing.

Somehow, that’d earned his respect. They started to look out for each other in unorthodox ways. Took the blame, and beatings, for each other’s mistakes. Traded turns polishing armor, and holding their liegelord’s vomit basin on feast nights. Figured out how to fight bullies bigger than themselves, and how to make a threat actually sound convincing.

And if Julia had been difficult to persuade on this whole scheme, Penny’d been almost impossible. He didn’t have the time for lofty dreams, or ambitions of a better life. The rest of the world had beaten those out of him long ago. He smiled once or twice a week, if that, and usually only if Eliot was making an ass of himself. He knew happiness was found in having a full belly. Not in pretending to be a knight, to chase glory and riches. But he’d gone along with it, training Eliot to stop flinching when taking a blow, hacking down trees to make lances and practice dummies, guiding his aim towards all the hard targets. Eliot wouldn’t’ve won a single match if it hadn’t been for Penny.

“Go!” Penny shouted at the mob. “All o’ you, fuck off! Move the fuck along!”

And the mob shouted back, their anger boiling over. Their simpler, rude gestures turned into harsh, accusatory pointing fingers. Into fists raised up then brought down. Into a line sliced across their necks.

Two more friends pushed their way through this time, heading towards Julia and Penny and joining their ranks. Alice and Kady, both brandishing hammers and pickaxes in each of their calloused hands. Eliot didn’t think it was possible, but his heart soared and sank simultaneously at the sight of them.

They were the finest blacksmiths anyone could ask for. Geniuses at the forge. Practically alchemists. Alice drafted designs like the art masters of Italy. She solved incomprehensible mathematical formulas. Sketched every cuirass, greave, gauntlet, and helmet like _that_ was her vernacular, instead of the king’s English. Then Kady would experiment on new ways to fold the steel, to make it twice as light and ten times as strong, always keeping the forge hot and the anvil singing.

Eliot’s friendship with them had begun with a lie too. Penniless in Rouen at the time, he’d convinced them to repair a crack in his armor for free, falsely advising – or rather, merely implying, because he never said anything straightforward if he could help it – that the other local smiths didn’t respect them. Not because they were women. Because “they were good with horseshoes, just shit at armor.” Alice had yanked the breastplate out of his hands without another word, while Kady shoveled heaps of coal on the fire.

Didn’t they know? That defending him now was a lost cause? That they’d get hurt if they stuck around much longer?

If they did, considering how smart as they were…well, they’d certainly been going against their better judgement from the beginning, then. They’d joined up, teaching him how to dance so he didn’t embarrass himself at a victory banquet. They’d made new armor for him without being asked – armor that made every blow from a lance feel like the graze of a feather pillow. And they’d even replaced the occasional horseshoe, when they were feeling generous.

And how did he repay them? By not listening to them either, when they’d echoed Julia in insisting he needed to run.

So then he’d turned to Penny, saying “Come on. You and me? We aren’t runners.”

And Penny’d smirked in agreement. But his eyes had been…fucking _soft_. Fucking _fond_. And he’d said, “No, man. Today, we are.”

So then Eliot turned back to Margo and –

 _Margo_.

Fucking _FUCK_. He was probably never going to see her again. Thank God she wasn’t here. Would she ever forgive him? For choosing his self-respect over his love for her? For forcing her to return to a life of waiting for the next son of so-and-so to stake his claim on her?

She was no one’s wife. That’s why he loved her. And truly knowing she was no one’s wife was why she loved him. She’d lured him into a church when they’d first met, exchanging verbal blows like rival courtiers vying for favor. Two halves who’d finally found their match. Until a priest had shouted at them for desecrating a house of God, because Eliot’d brought his horse inside while he was distracted. Margo had hidden her laughter behind a demure fan, gleeful at her victory. She later said desecration was a personal hobby of hers, and she suspected it was one of his as well.

She’d followed him across the tournament circuit, coincidentally on her own crusade of the countryside. Her father was putting her on display – anyone could see that. Very well. What was stopping Eliot from asking for her hand, when he won the grand championship in London? Didn’t she see it was perfect? He couldn’t care less about her dowry. Had no intention of producing any offspring whatsoever, as he had no desire to pass on his fictional family name. He didn’t even have the right…proclivities…for her parts. What more could she want in a husband?

The performance they’d pulled off in front of the rest of the gentry had been the finest theatre since the creation of the Passion Play. His courtship even involved purposefully losing a few matches once. As “proof of his love.” Then she, the “fickle woman,” had a change of heart and demanded he win once more.

Yesterday, she’d demanded he run, if he loved her. Told him not to make her beg. That she would run with him when she could get away.

“And where would you sleep,” he’d asked her quietly, “In my hovel? With the pigs, in winter, so they won’t freeze?”

“Yes, Eliot,” she said. A single tear had slid down her face. It was all the fear for him that she’d allow herself to show. “With the pigs.”

Eliot shook his head, staring her right in the eyes, demanding that she understand. “I’m a knight. I don’t run.”

“A knight in your heart,” Julia said, throwing his saddle on their horse, “but not on paper, and paper is all that matters to them!”

Them. Count Martin. And all the lords and ladies, and all those in their employ. The enforcers of “might is right.” Even Eliot's fellow commoners long ago had been persuaded. One does not rise above their station. One must be of noble birth to compete.

But Eliot had done it. Not only had he taken every one of their blows. He'd bested every one of those Sirs and Barons and Counts. Propelled half of them right off their mounts. Not because of where he was born, or who had trained him. Because he was _better_ at it than they were. And now, because they’d learned the truth, because they were going to arrest him before he could ride in the championship match, he was supposed to flee, with his tail between his legs?

No. He would go right into the stadium anyway. They could arrest him all they liked. He was a _knight_. He would not run, _could_ not run.

So he didn’t. They'd put a sword to his neck, clapped him in irons, and took him away. 

His friends really needed to go. Now. The people gathering here were starting to scream at them. Alice and Kady were sinking into a fighting stance. Penny was shouting, about all the pain these shit-licking ass wipes would be in if they didn’t disperse. It didn’t matter. In moments, the crowd was going to rush forward, and overrun them all.

“Julia,” Eliot called out. “You have to leave. All of you. Let 'em have me!”

She didn’t answer. Maybe she couldn’t hear him.

Then Eliot’s heart broke all over again. The final nail in the coffin had arrived. The best of them all.

Quentin had broken through the line.

The dark circles under his eyes were back. He probably hadn’t slept at all last night. Entirely Eliot’s fault. He’d put his hair up in that queue again, a lock falling into his beautiful face despite the bun. Never mind itching his back; Eliot would give his right arm to brush that strand back out of his face. Kiss his brow. Indulge in irony once again, by begging _him_ to run now, while he still had the chance.

“Listen to me!” Quentin told the mob, at the top of his lungs.

Eliot could laugh. He could weep. His Q. His herald. Of course he tried using words. Always words, always the right ones. Except now.

Before Q had traipsed into his life, Eliot hadn’t considered himself a poet. Seriously, the only reason he even knew that last word was thanks to the way…things like that just…rolled right off the other man’s tongue so unaffectedly.

Saints, what a tongue. And what a gorgeous mind directing it.

What a perfect angel. Who, for their first meeting, God’d seen fit to have walk stark naked along the same road Eliot’d been travelling. Cupping his nethers in modesty, his skin beet red either from sun exposure or Eliot’s scouring eyes. What a view. Perfect ass, perfect legs, perfect shoulders, perfect back, perfect chest, perfect neck, perfect utterly-embarrassed smile and half-downcast brown eyes when he answered Julia’s question about what happened to him, that he’d lost all his clothes in a game of dice.

Quentin Coldwater had then bowed slightly, when he’d offered his name, professing himself a writer, who would scribble anything for a penny. Letters, warrants, degrees, patents of nobility, edicts. Even a novella or two, when the muse was upon him.

As if the blessings would never cease. A man who could forge a document to prove Eliot had aristocratic ancestors. They needed it to enter tournaments in the first place.

When Eliot expressed his interest in the patents, and then provided his own name in return – the full counterfeit one, because he thought he needed to be impressive – Quentin licked his lips. Gave Eliot a thorough once over. And sarcastically said, “Yeah, and I’m Richard the Lionheart. Or, better, William the Conqueror. No! Charlemagne, back from the dead!”

So Eliot pulled a dagger on him, instructing Quentin to hold his tongue, or he'd lose it.

“See, that I do believe, _Sir_ El,” Quentin had said quietly, from beneath those damn eyelashes.

“Thank you.” The rest of his threats had died in his throat. “Q.”

He hadn’t meant to bestow a nickname, but, shit, maybe his own muse had been on him. Or he just…couldn’t think of anything else, and that’d been the sound already in his mouth at the time. Because he was developing a _crush_ , of all things.

In the end, Quentin hadn’t just made the patents, with parchment, ink, and some damn impressive calligraphy, thanks to those wicked hands of his. While they clothed and fed him, he and Julia swapped opinions about Greek tragedies, and he even traded some japes with Penny.

Later, when the farrises came along, he made Alice laugh when an answer eluded her. And he always offered to hold a pair of tongs for Kady, or to fetch her a nearby tool.

Like he’d been a part of their family from the beginning.

Most impressive of all? He’d transformed Eliot, body and soul. Yes, Eliot had created his false noble name, but Quentin had given it a past.

As his herald, Quentin would amble up in front of a crowd, a humble hunch in his shoulders. Then he would suddenly shake off that cute, quiet demeanor, and had everyone – lords, ladies, and groundlings all – eating out of his hand before the second sentence fell from his lips. He invented heroic deeds El had done, pious penances El had performed, made catchy, rhyming labels for El’s previous victories. His fantastic voice carried far and wide, sucking everyone in, rising and falling like a war cry and a melodic lullaby, all in the same speech. Quentin would get their attention, and then step away, returning to his natural humility, so Eliot could go and win their hearts.

And yet, the only heart Eliot was interested in, was his.

Except he had no idea if it was even…if he even wanted…if he even thought of Eliot like…

If God had sent him an angel, there was every chance this angel was really just another form of Hell’s honeyed torture.

When Eliot came to him, with the excuse of needing something to ‘woo’ Margo, Q would whisper such sweet verses in Eliot’s ear that he’d have trouble standing.

When Eliot needed a letter written, Quentin would always ask him to reread it over his shoulder, letting him draw close.

He told such fantastic stories around their campfires. Didn’t buy into half of Eliot’s bullshit for a second, although he’d play along for the fun of it, for the joy of seeing it work out.

He went off for hours about whether Homer should be taught to children alongside the Bible. Begged Eliot to help him practice his Italian, just to be able to read Dante’s original stanzas. Refused to give up until he’d mastered Petrarch’s sonnet form – with Eliot dutifully volunteering words to rhyme as a challenge. Eliot would've dutifully sank to his knees to take Quentin into his mouth, or sank his cock into the perfection of Quentin’s body, like a benediction, like the Sacrament itself, if Quentin had but said the word. 

How could he be everything Eliot wanted?

It defied expectation. It defied fucking divine explanation. And there were those wenches in the taverns, the handmaids clucking in the marketplaces. Even the fucking novice nuns peeking out of abbey windows drew Quentin’s eye upon occasion. So that was…a concern.

But Eliot was the one Quentin had confessed to about his melancholia. How he used to gamble away money on cards and dice just to feel something. Just to see if the stars were aligned against him after all. Those days when it returned…Quentin’s silence was deafening. So were the nights, when Eliot found him curled up in the woods or by a stream, haunted by his sadness, and he’d bury his head into Eliot’s chest like he was trying to press through the skin and straight into his heart.

“Listen to me!” Quentin shouted now.

 _Always_ , Eliot’s soul replied.

A rock sailed past Quentin’s head, slamming against the stockade by Eliot’s hand. The people surrounding them were shrieking, almost like monsters. More started to throw rocks, sticks, and dung. A rotten turnip split open over Eliot’d head, running down the wood and onto the back of his neck.

Penny started to back up, grabbing Quentin by his sleeve and dragging him back with him. Eliot could hear him warn the others, “We’re in trouble.”

Terror clawed its way inside every bone in his body. From the very first match, he’d known the fickleness of it all. He knew that an audience’s love was nearer to hate than any other feeling. And he’d been prepared to weather their rage. To take the beatings and the spit and the slurs. Resigned himself to it. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.

The last thing he’d wanted was to drag everyone else down with him, in some futile attempt to shield him. Now, he would be forced to watch as they were all broken to a bloody pulp. He’d never get to hold them again, laugh with them again. He’d never get to tell each of them he loved them. This was his true punishment. This sea was going to crash against them, and they’d be shattered against the cliffs.

A rock sheared Julia across the eyebrow, drawing a line of blood.

No, please no.

He strained against the stocks, bracing his feet. Splinters dug into his neck and wrists. He had no leverage. Nothing moved, not the lock or its nails or the slats. The guards at the edge of the street were watching with bored delight.

Eliot heard the sound of a sword being drawn. His heart stopped, and then slammed against his breastbone again and again. He could barely lift his head, could barely tell what was happening. If God really wanted him to pray, he was about to fucking start.

The cacophony of voices began to die down. Quentin and the rest drew as close as they dared. But no one was looking at them anymore, not even Eliot.

A figure, formerly dressed in a heavy black cloak, had shrugged off his disguise and was coming up the steps. A pair of soldiers followed, their steel glinting in the sun. He couldn’t believe it. The last person on earth he’d expected to see...was the crown prince of England, leaning close to peer into Eliot’s eyes. The square was entirely quiet as he took him in. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Unlike everyone else here, Eliot had the strange - luck? misfortune? - of having spoken with the prince before. Not once, but twice. And they hadn’t just talked. They’d jousted against each other. And Eliot had won.

Their first bout, Eliot hadn’t known who he really was. They’d been tied, two points each. There was one chance left to try and best each other. Before the final round, Eliot’s opponent had walked his mount forward, asking to speak with him. When he lifted his visor, Eliot saw the stranger grimace.

“I’m through,” the man admitted. His voice was deep and rich, but his lips pressed together. He wasn’t bleeding, but something inside may have been bruised, or broken. His face was pale, and sweat ran across his brow. “But…I’ve never not finished before,” he paused, choosing his words carefully. “I wish to keep my honor…intact.”

It’d taken a moment, but Eliot realized what he meant. He met his eyes, unexpectedly vulnerable in this quiet moment between them.

He could refuse. Or he could lie – agree to what he was asking, and then take the point anyway. The man’s wellbeing didn’t have to be his concern.

When it came time for them to charge at each other, Eliot chose mercy. As one, they both lifted their lances up to the sky at the same time, neither going for the final point. Technically, this counted as a draw.

Then, the stranger had his herald put a white flag over his coat of arms on the podium. He'd withdrawn, and Eliot advanced to the next match.

He hadn’t seen him again ‘til half a year later, at another tournament in France. Count Martin had been in the lists this time, about to face the stranger in the semi-final. Everyone in the stands, Eliot among them, couldn’t wait for the contest to start.

But Martin’s herald abruptly put his white flag up. No one could figure out why. Martin never withdrew.

Later that day, when it was Eliot’s turn to face the stranger, Quentin suddenly bolted onto the field. He’d learned from gossiping stable hands that the stranger was actually the crown prince. If Eliot faced him, he was knowingly endangering a member of the royal family. Julia told Quentin to go put their white flag up immediately, and Penny held his arms out to take his lance.

But Eliot had seen the armored man at the edge of the stadium. Those once vulnerable, now determined eyes, were still behind that visor, waiting. Before he could let his better judgement take over, Eliot was already urging his horse into a gallop.

The prince called for his own lance, and they’d crashed together to the roar of a happy crowd.

Julia was white-faced when Eliot came back. A million reproaches leaped from her mouth. She half-expected royal guards to descend on them from all sides any second.

He kept his voice low as he explained: the prince knew the risks. He was knowingly endangering _himself_. Didn’t she see? He was like Eliot: hiding his identity too, riding under another name for the chance to compete, to circumvent what the law and their country’s expectations maintained, the only way they knew how.

Soon, the prince rode up to greet him. “Well hit, Sir El,” he said, his helmet still on.

Eliot kept his voice from betraying him. His blood was still singing in his ears, and he was about to lay down another gamble, on top of the hand he’d just played. “You too, Prince Idri.”

A hearty laugh echoed through his metal suit. With one hand, Idri pulled off his helmet and revealed himself. Gasps erupted through the stands, as those nearby recognized him and then whispered to their neighbors.

“You knew me?” Idri asked.

His surprise didn’t seem forced, at least. A good sign.

Or it was an out. Eliot could play dumb - that he'd _just_ learned it now, your Highness! A thousand apologies!

Or it was a test. Despite his earlier bravado, there was still a hint of unease rolling through him. The prince had all the power; Eliot had none. If he didn’t handle this carefully, the prince could crush them with a snap of his fingers. So Eliot kept a small smile on his face, a hint of charm, and nodded once, leaving it at that.

“And you still chose to ride?” said Idri.

Might was well be honest…so long as he could leave it up to interpretation. He cleared his throat. “It’s not in me to withdraw.”

Idri’s face was unreadable. He replied, “It’s the same for me. Although, it does happen, from time to time.” He saluted Eliot, turned his horse, and left the field. After all, his continued participation in the tournament was now moot.

Today, his face was the same, a sphinx in the afternoon sun. “What a pair we make, hm?” Idri asked, for Eliot’s ears alone. “Both trying to hide who we are. Both unable to do so.”

Eliot wasn’t sure what he meant at first. But his eyes betrayed him. He glanced at Quentin for a split second. And then he realized Idri probably was only referring to the whole…secret identity thing. Shit.

Idri’s eyebrows drew together. He turned, following Eliot’s gaze, taking in the sight of his friends. Of Quentin’s place in the center of them all. When the prince turned back, he raised an eyebrow and he squinted, just a bit.

Eliot didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Your men love you. If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough,” Idri noted, almost to himself. If he’d guessed anything, he’d made the choice to keep his words vague. Like they were talking about Eliot leading a small band of soldiers into battle. “But you also tilt, when you should withdraw. And that quality, too, is found among all true knights.”

The words hung in the air as Idri straightened his spine.

“Release him,” he ordered.

Had…had Eliot heard that right? Yes, he. He must’ve. One of those apathetic guards was unlocking the stocks, just enough for Eliot to pry himself out.

Only, his legs were liquid. Maybe he hadn’t been as prepared for this after all. His knees collapsed. Two pairs of hands – Quentin’s and Penny’s – caught him. Quentin lifted his arm over his head, taking on most of his weight. Idri descended the dais, and they followed close behind.

Surveying his people, every inch a future king, Idri addressed the crowd. “He may appear to come from humble stock. A thatcher’s son, from Cheapside. Who mended nets until his father tried to give him a better life. And yet, my personal historians have discovered…that he is descended from an ancient royal line.”

He was?

“Oh, this's gonna make him easier to live with,” Penny muttered.

“This is my word,” Idri continued, his voice like iron, “And as such, it is beyond contestation.”

Oh. Now he could see what the prince was doing.

Well, he could get away with things like that, Eliot supposed.

 _Fucking let him_ , his brain reprimanded.

Back on solid ground, Kady and Julia and Alice came to stand with him. He was starting to feel his legs again. Starting to feel many things again, now that the fear was leeching out. They were safe. He was safe. Penny had an impossible grip on one arm. Alice and Kady had tucked their weapons into their belts. Julia was wiping her forehead with her sleeve, though the scratch was already drying out. And Quentin was right there, pressed close, like a missing piece of his heart returned home again.

Idri turned, taking in the sight of them. If lions could smirk, Idri was providing an uncanny impression of one. “Now, if I might repay the kindness you once showed me, I’d like you to take a knee.”

What did that mean? Why was everyone looking at him like –

Oh.

Eliot suddenly couldn’t move. If this was a vision, sent by devils, and he was really just still locked up in the Tower of London, shackled to the wall and –

Quentin’s hand around his back gripped his shirt. He could smell the sweat drying off of his tunic. One of his hairs tickled Eliot’s chin.

“Q, help me?” he whispered.

Quentin nodded, his stunned look probably reflecting Eliot’s. They shuffled forward, so Quentin could help Eliot lower himself without crying out.

Idri unsheathed his own sword. Eliot had a split-second fear that the prince was about to take his head off. But he just tapped one shoulder, and then the other. He barely heard him start his speech, about the power vested in him by so-on-and-so-forth.

But he did hear this: “I dub thee, Sir Eliot Waugh.”

And a flash caught his eye. It was just a little glint, like a star in the daylight, from a trickle of tears running down Quentin’s cheek. He was smiling.

Eliot was a –

He was…a. Knight.

“Arise, Sir Eliot,” Idri instructed, sheathing his sword and offering a hand.

He took it, climbing to his feet. He should probably say something. Like. Express his eternal gratitude. Offer to go on a quest. Compose a ballad. Where were his goddamn words? Quentin, where were his goddamn words?

Instead, he stumbled through answering a few more questions from Idri. No, he wasn’t going to let the forfeit stand. Yes, he was going to go to the stadium and face the count, that backstabbing tit. Well, Idri didn’t put it like that, but it was implied. And yes, he was definitely planning on winning His Highness’s tournament. Yes, he’d see him after.

Eliot’s family tugged him backward towards the stables. They all bowed, begging His Highness’s pardon. They had a horse to saddle. Had armor to buckle in place. And _someone_ had to cart three lances over to the field. If he would just excuse them.

Idri offered Eliot one final salute, and then the crowd was parting around them. Hundreds met Eliot’s eye as they raced through the streets. How many of them would know, by the time he rode into the stadium? How fast would the word spread? How quickly would they sprint to the stadium too - now that one of their own had risen so high? How many of them would decide to love him again after all?

But that was the thing. He never really needed their love. He hadn’t done this for them. He’d done it for himself. Himself, and the people he truly loved, who were racing around their quarters left and right to get him ready.

“Everyone, I – ”

They stopped, all eyes trained on him.

“I –”

Penny smacked him upside the head. “After, dickhead. You haven’t won yet.”

Eliot looked around at each and every one of their faces. Kady shrugged, sniffed, and bent back over the gauntlets she was greasing with oil. Alice smiled, and then she continued to re-screw a joint on his helmet. Penny loped over to the lances without looking back at him. Julia handed him a skin of water to drink from. A few tears were in her eyes too.

He loved them so much. He owed everything to them.

His left side went cold. Quentin had peeled himself off and was heading for the door. “I’m gonna, um, go find milady Margo. She’ll probably know everything by now. But she said something about, uh, going to go get your dad?” He hung his head sheepishly. “Just…wanna make sure they get the best seats.”

And he was gone, before Eliot could blink.

Right. Um. Penny was right. He needed to keep his feet on the ground. Get his blood pumping, hone his mind, keep it sharp. He needed to keep his heart in his chest, and not flying out after the man he was so _fucking in love with_ that _nothing_ should stop him from saying it. Margo'd forgive him, when he told her later. 

He bolted out the door after Quentin.

He didn’t have his armor. He was no poet. He was just an ordinary, vulnerable man. Who would not, _could_ not run away. Not from this. Not anymore. If there was any running to be done, it was towards a future with Quentin Coldwater. If Eliot could get knighted by the crown prince in the street, if Eliot could prove a man can change his stars...Then he wanted his nights to be filled with the constellations they would trace together.

He called out to the distant figure of his love in the street, raising a hand. “Quentin!”

Quentin turned around. Eliot couldn’t see his face.

“Get over here!”

Eliot decided, right then, as Quentin drew closer, that time was an illusion. It would take Quentin an eternity, and no time at all, to retrace his steps back down the road, and meet Eliot at the end. He had barely any time, and he had forever, to tell Quentin all the things he wanted to say. So he would say them. It’d would be messy, and mostly the wrong thing, at the wrong time. But he could still say it, _would_ still say it. Eliot Waugh would live a life in a day, every day, so long as it was, and would always be, with Quentin Coldwater.


End file.
